


Reconcile

by skavanders



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, But he's just looking out for the reader, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Harry and Hermione being supportive, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ron Is Kind of an Ass, Softness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skavanders/pseuds/skavanders
Summary: The battle of hogwarts has come to and end, and draco doesn’t realize how much he truly misses the reader until he’s asked to come and visit him. However, he finds that the task far more difficult than imagined
Relationships: (hinted) Harry Potter/George weasley, Draco Malfoy/Male reader, Draco Malfoy/Reader, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Reconcile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GammaDraconis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GammaDraconis/gifts).



> you can find this on my tumblr account : @skavanders

**DRACO** knew, deep down — despite how fervently he attempted to convince himself that the long, sleepless hours of which he spent contemplating everything he had done wrong in life meant nothing, and that those terrible deeds should not make him feel ill to his stomach with immeasurable guilt — that he had hurt you, and by extent, hurt himself in the process. He did not wish to recollect the memory of your crestfallen features and teary eyes, for it brought him great suffering, and yet the image was thinly engraved into everything that lay around him; almost as though it were teetering on the edge of being forgotten, but still resided where he could see it, even in the smallest, most insignificant things, simply so that he could not forget and would remain burdened by the presence of your somewhat ghostly face. It often made an appearance in his afternoon tea, as he would stare down at the dark liquid, unmoving and unaware of what was occurring around him until there was a brief disruption in balance that set the sweet smelling beverage rippling faintly in its china saucer, and from there, he could see you, just as you once were. Sometimes — though it was rare, thankfully, because he experienced such fright whenever it happened — you would materialize as what appeared to be an apparition, dressed in the tattered robes which you had worn during the battle of Hogwarts, or in the tailored suit that had come into light for only one day _ **:** _when you had vouched for his innocence in court.

He could not begin to fathom why you did such a thing. After all he had done; after all the pain he had caused you, and not to mention the thousands of other magic-folk; you still managed to forgive him. But then, was it forgiveness, or mere pity? The Malfoy manor had fallen, not to ruin, but to a crisis that left it abandoned and without hope of ever being reclaimed, and thus Draco found himself living **_(_** although he might call it surviving **_)_ **in an acutely uncomfortable, yet substantial apartment in the Hampstead, London area. His mother, of whom he had not seen in the last month or so, had taken to residing in a place much like their old home, only smaller, and without the company of slaving house elves. _“Come back home, Draco.”_ she had pleaded, only to be ignored by her son. _“I don’t know why you insist upon living on your own when there’s no where to go. Though I admire your vigilance to stay independent . . . there’s no harm in staying with us.”_ On the contrary, there was much shame to be endowed with from living with his mother at the blooming age of twenty-four. Draco simply did not need the extra weight of ignominy on top of his own mortgage, as well as the repressive memories from his past, so owning a private flat seemed the best step to putting his life of selfishness behind him.   
Even still, his pompous rich-kid complex had yet to diminish, and while his ego was no longer the size of England, it remained ever present. As for his father, the two had developed a rather iffy relationship after the war, and it had not changed since. In regards to Mrs. Malfoy’s statement, the word “us” must be taken into consideration, for it was noted among all those of the wizarding world that although Lucius served a trial for his crimes, he did not earn his time in Azkaban. Narcissa, quite wary of her husband’s previous actions, did not object to sharing the new house with him, but appeared stiff and controlled in his presence, as though she were trying not to lash out at him or cry. The latter, of course, did not follow until he left the room, and if Draco were there, he would waste no time in consoling her until she wiped her tears, straightened her gown and silently made her way back to her room. She would speak no more of it.

That left Draco to his own business.

Astonishingly, he had grown paler, and if one were to pay close attention to his form, they might notice the dark circles under his eyes indicating lack of sleep, as well as the bagginess of his clothes suggesting that he was not eating properly, and therefore none of what lay in his wardrobe fit like they used to. In short, he was a mess. But there seemed nothing to fix him, and if you asked ** _(_** though people so rarely did _ **)**_ there was nothing _to_ fix.

So what was Draco Malfoy of all people doing amidst the muggles of London, then?

Quite simple.  
You, of course.

He himself was on a leave from work, as St. Mungo’s had grown to crowded for his pestering anxiety to handle, which left lots of time to ponder his mistakes. Unsurprisingly, you had made yourself quite the name after graduating from Hogwarts, mainly by sticking to Harry’s side and guarding him from the press, to which they retaliated by making a news article in favor of you _ **:**_ _the Beloved Bodyguard of the Boy Who Lived_. It was a mouthful, if you asked Draco, and not only that, but left a bitter taste there once saying it aloud. Of course you were still close friends with Potter, though it appeared the Daily Prophet had other ideas about your intentions; most of them vastly suggestive. He could only hope that your response to their foolish disregard for others’ privacy was true, and that there was “absolutely nothing going on between Harry and I”, as you put it.

“Harry is my best friend, and I value him like a brother. I shouldn’t have to defend myself or him from such lies, but here you are, pushing your far-fetched fantasies on us like it’s some kind of silly game. Well I won’t stand for it. Mr. Potter has had quite enough drama in his life up to this point, and I think it best he gets the long awaited break he deserves, so if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it and shove it up their-”

Draco had to stop reading there. Perhaps, when the facts were displayed before him over the years he had observed you get along with Harry, it only made sense that the two of you would have something special. Why wouldn’t you? Just because you told Rita Skeeter that your affections for him were nothing more than platonic, it didn’t necessarily mean anything; especially not to the nosy woman herself, who by the looks of it, had disregarded your words entirely and replaced them with something new to consider. “New”, meaning more misinformation that her readers would surely gobble up in a heartbeat. Besides your part-time job as Harry Potter’s watch dog, you had taken up an occupation in gardening, which came of no shock to Draco. Your botanist tendencies had been nurtured from an early life, from what you had told him, before things went downhill and all communication with you had been cut off — courtesy of his own single, somewhat selfish desire. You grew flowers, sold them to both wealthy and moderately wealthy customers, and made a living of it excellently. Salazar, what he would give just to know what went on in your life, not through the Daily Prophet, but from your own mouth, just as he used to.   
Draco pondered this thought for a moment longer, then shifted in his seat, groggily running a hand over tired eyes. His arm fell limp at his side just as a knock came at the door, causing him to groan both internally and outwardly. The person outside took this as a sign to come in, and for a split second, Draco felt his soul depart from his body at the thought of it being a burglar or murderer. Then, he recalled that no one, save for his parents and the housekeeper, ever came to visit, and that neither of the more ghastly options would knock before coming into one’s flat. He settled back in the chair and watched as the elderly woman shuffled in, barely more than a few steps until raising her spectacles and squinting at him. Miss Arnold **_(_ **she preferred it if everyone called her “Penny” _**)**_ had trouble with her eyesight, and she was constantly bumping into things. There were many times when Draco had to aid her in reaching her destination so that he wouldn’t have to watch her fumble around, but he was always thoroughly blessed afterword, which he found irritating and unnecessary. She was, as she had once mentioned, and muggleborn witch. She did not appear to have any quarrel with him whatsoever, despite knowing his past affiliations, and conversed with him like a normal, decent human being.   
  
“Oh, so sorry to interrupt one of your moods, dearie.” he cringed at this, folding his arms over his chest in a disapproving manner, even if he knew she probably couldn’t see it. “I just came to check up on ye.”   
  
Draco scrunched up his nose and cast her a dismissive look, waving her off. He did not have the energy to be snarky with her today, which would usually cause inner conflict, but he did not even have the energy for that. “I’m fine, Penny. I think I’d prefer to be alone right now.”   
  
This was met with a soft snort and an understanding nod before Penny clapped her hands together, slowly backing towards the door. “Alright, dearie, I’ll leave you to your brooding-”   
  
“Thank you.” _Home free_.   
  
“Oh, I almost forgot!” _Damnit_ , Draco sighed, reaching up to rub his temples. Penny reached behind her back and pulled out a curious looking parcel, extending it to the male’s vicinity so that he could politely take it from her, soon fondling it gently in his grasp. It was oddly shaped; similar to a long and thin cone; and wrapped delicately, showing how careful and patient the sender must be to perfect the creases in which the paper folded. It was tied neatly with a small red bow, which should have meant nothing significant, but was one of the details that captured his interest the most. “That came in the mail for you today, along with this note.”   
  
She pulled another package from the front pocket of her apron and handed it to him. Draco placed the first packet on the stout coffee table beside him to observe the card, but found nothing written on it. He flipped it over, front to back, and found nothing. Penny shrugged off his unimpressed glare and told him that a note was a note, no matter what it said, or in this case, didn’t say. She then paused, gesturing to the larger package with hesitancy.   
“Of course, I’m not fully sure it’s yours. You know my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but it looks like your address. I just need you to verify it and-” Draco had stopped listening, but did as he was requested and checked the small scribbled handwriting on one end of the parcel that read ‘ _212 Finchley Road, Apartment 07_ ′.   
  
“Yeah, it’s mine.” he stated bluntly, placing both objects in his lap as he faced the housekeeper with an expectant leer. “Now, will you leave me to my brooding?” his voice was tense, as were his muscles, and this much was apparent to Penny as she nodded solemnly and bid him goodbye, closing the door behind her. The flat was consumed by an unsettling silence, and to cure it, Draco immediately began peeling away at the brown paper of the package to see what was inside. He did this with care, as he did not wish to tamper with the object in case it was something valuable. He had to pause and remember the date, wondering if he had forgotten his birthday, but soon remembered that it was the middle of April, and his birthday would not be for another two months.   
The ribbon was set aside, and after a minute or so, Draco had finally managed to tear off the rest of the cover to reveal a plastic, cone-shaped container, of which held the least likely thing he could ever imagine. A pure white rose sat within the confinements, its stem greener than fresh grass in the spring and thriving with vigor. It made sense seeing as some individual flowers were packaged like this to keep them from being damaged, but why on earth would anyone send him a gift such as this? And who? As this thought entered his head, Draco froze abruptly, scrambling for the card and scrutinizing it once more, this time with more discretion. No name, not even their initials were there to be seen. But why would they send a note without writing anything on it?   
  
The blonde tossed it away just as quickly as he had picked it up, his interest decreasing as he watched it bask in the rays of the overhead light. It must be a joke of some kind, he mused to himself bitterly. What dolt sends a single flower to someone without letting them know who they are? His question was unanswered, as expected, and he sunk lower into the plush chair. He surveyed the rest of the room with a hooded gaze, feeling partially drained and ready for bed, but did not move. One car, then another, passed by the building, blaring their horns so that he could still hear them as they drove further down the street, and to this, he rose to his feet in a burst of frustration and anger, having half a mind to open his window and curse at whoever was driving. As he stood, however, he noticed a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and looked downward towards the note. His jaw went slack at the sight of words appearing on the small piece of parchment, and it only took a moment before realization hit. He glanced between the light and the card —feeling rather stupid for not thinking of it earlier — then snatched it up, holding it to the fullness of the light and shaking his head. Initially, be believed that figuring out who the sender was would quench his curiosity and end his troubles, but the more he began to read, the more perplexed and upset he became.   
  
_‘My love for you is like this rose; Pure and blossoming with each passing day.’_   
  
The cogs and gears within Draco’s mind came to a stuttering halt, his initial train of thought just barely clinging onto what mental capacity he had left before there sparked a reigniting flame that sent him jerking back to reality, his short-lived cognitive break down making a hasty finish. His head fell into his hands as oxygen proceeded to filter in and out of his lungs, but in a diluted manner, and yet he remained completely unaware of this. He spent the next minute listening to the sound of his own breathing, then looked up, placing the card under the light once more to see if there was anything else written. On the front lay a poem; that sweet as it may be, caused Draco to feel nauseous, and not in the butterflies in your stomach type way; written in delicate cursive, familiar to his memory.

A vision from his past leapt out from the darkness of his conscious, dragging him down under to reminisce upon the wistful scene that was you, in your fifth year, seated in the back of potions class as you scribbled away in your notebook. Draco had been assigned partners with you, and it proved to be less taxing than he first presumed, but it was still rather boring not having any of his fellow Slytherins at his side, so he picked up on ways to pass the time. Watching you take notes was one of them. He had memorized the sharp curve of your ‘v’s and the flourishing loop of your ‘o’s in about a month, and although it became obvious that he was observing you closely during that time, you made no jeering comments towards the matter as he suspected you would. The back of the note, however, was signed as though in a hurry, and you were making your way out the door while doing so. He reread the sentence over and over, thinking that if he stared long enough, it would shift into something else. Something that he would not have to spend the following nights procrastinating on.  
  
 _‘Please come and see me.’_ Your initials were scrawled underneath, plain as day, and thus Draco had a difficult time convincing himself that it was not you who had sent him the rose with a plea for one on one contact. But then, it didn’t really specify whether it would just be the two of them or not. _Just the two of us. . ._ Again, Draco tossed the piece of paper away, deciding that he would indulge himself in the fantasies it conjured no longer, and stood from the chair, his lower back aching in protest.   
  
He stood, teetering for a moment as though he were going to flop back into his seat, then shuffled out of the living room and into the cramped bedroom that lay beside it. He had fallen asleep in the chair on many occasions; too many, mind you, for his body had already accommodated to its lumpy feeling; so his bed appeared to him now as tufts of clouds, soft and welcoming. He moved sluggishly towards it, his eyelids drooping with the foreshadowing of a well needed rest, and threw himself onto the mattress. Instead of complaining about how the springs creaked and crowed under his weight, he reveled in the space given for him to sprawl out and bury his lanky limbs under the covers. Without realizing that he had been chilly before, there washed over him a distinct change in temperature, soothing his nerves with the gentle warmth that came from the blankets. Draco did not bother to check what he was wearing and simply placed his head on the pillow, his eyes closing in an instant, waiting for sleep to take him. Did you really want to see him? Was is all just a trick? Perhaps, had Potter and Weasley convinced you to pull some sort of sick prank to make him think you still cared? 

“Harry Potter is my best friend-”   
“My love for you is like this rose”   
  
The two statements counteracted with each other violently, and Draco to let out a huff of frustration. He reopened his eyes for only a second, to see the flower, still on the table in its plastic carrier. Then, he was turning on his opposite side and bringing the covers up to rest under his nose, a soft exhale rippling the fabric. What reason would he have to play with me like that? he tried to argue, and at that point; his mind erupting in a hazy fog and shutting down; that seemed good enough reasoning for him. _Tomorrow,_ he told himself. _I’ll see him tomorrow._

  
***

  
  
Tomorrow — which had felt like forever away while Draco slept, surprisingly well when considering how fitfully he lay after the war — came sooner than expected. He awoke abruptly, his legs jerking out from under the sheets to be prickled by a wisp of cool air, and immediately reached up to run his hands through his disheveled hair. Often times, Draco could not recall his dreams unless they were relative to his fears or what had come to pass during his seventh year ** _(_ **to his great displeasure, and to which he assumed it was a terrible case of karma _**)**_ , and were reoccurring, but this dream was oddly unfamiliar. It was pitch black and gave a foreboding aura, and extended for miles; seemingly endless. He had walked for god knows how long before tripping on something he could not see and toppling over and edge that he assumed did not exist in such a place. But it was an illusion on the stage his mind has set, he reminded himself, and so it was not as shocking now. He fell and fell and fell until a light appeared at the bottom, or the top ** _  
(_ **he couldn’t exactly tell which way he was falling _**)**_ that grew gradually larger until he came smacking down upon the ground. The experience of falling from towering heights and hitting the surface, only to wake up right after, was not a foreign feeling, but the hallucination itself was.   
After tearing the blankets away, Draco noticed that he had worn nothing but a gray t-shirt and slacks the day prior, and quickly shimmied out of them before tossing them in a corner and making a mental note to gather them later. He sauntered over to the tall dresser and examined what was inside, his gaze landing on the sleek black suit, then flickering towards a dark green jumper. A scowl formed on his face at the memory of when he last wore that suit, and with that in mind, tore the jumper from its hook and slid it on over his head. A pair of beige trousers came next, and he slid his wand into the back pocket, soon slipping the hem of the sweater overtop to conceal it. Draco eyed the kitchen; that was tiny, quaint and overall opposite to the enormous one back at the old manor; for a moment, but just as most mornings, was not hungry, and instead made his way to the washroom.   
  
He blinked, wide-eyed at his reflection for some time as he observed his somewhat disheveled appearance in the mirror, then searched the drawers for a brush to smooth out the silvery blonde strands. Not too long after was Draco heading to the door, his hair shining with a thin layer of product. But just as his hand grasped the doorknob, he was stopped by the sight of the rose, still where he had left it. The image of its pristine white petals lingered as he took a deep breath, and for the first time in days, left his apartment. He did not waste formalities by greeting Penny, who was dusting everything in sight, and just barely got out the exit by the time she had noticed him and asked where he was going. He heard a vague “finally getting out for a change”, from the woman, but was far too focused on the hustle and bustle that lay before him to care.   
  
It was only then that he realized just how much he was missing while being cooped up in his flat, and addressed the packed scenery with unease. He would have apparated were it not for how weak he felt, especially during the early morning, so walking was his next best option. _I suppose I could use the exercise,_ was his first thought as he edged himself into the traffic of people, weaving through the tighter spaces and walking right through the larger ones. At least, from what he could tell, there were no potential threats anywhere near. All of the men and women around him looked devoid of magical properties of any kind, and even if they were a witch or wizard, they did not make any move to berate him. He narrowly missed getting hit by a car when crossing the street, to which he was not so pleased with, but eventually reached his destination, feeling rather small in comparance to your doorway. Or perhaps it was the dread of finally being able to see you again, and not knowing what might follow if he knocked on the door. He raised a shaking fist, but merely let it hover inches from the wood before turning around and letting out a puff of air, rubbing his forehead and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He did this twice more, fearing that he had been keeping you waiting long enough, and pulled himself together just in time for the door to open from the inside.   
  
It was not you standing in the doorway, but someone equally as familiar; someone who Draco had hoped he would never have to see again. He need only glance at the mop of red hair that sat upon his head to know who it was, and scowled.   
  
“Weasel.” he said coldly, arms folded across his chest. It was definitely a bit of a let-down seeing as he had expected to see you and was met with one of the undesirable Weasley’s.  
  
“Malfoy.” Ron replied with just as much venom in his tone. The glare he wore was unlike anything he had seen **_(_** surprisingly **_)_** and filled with unbridled hatred. No, not hatred. This was quite different, and Draco had to cover up the chill it sent crawling up his spine. He cast a glance over his shoulder to see that the streets were still very busy, then looked back expectantly, raising a brow in inquiry.   
  
“He’s inside.” Ron interrupted just as he opened his mouth, and Draco was disappointed to see that he was not leaving, but opening the door so that he could come inside. The last thing he wanted was to be within close vicinity of the ginger, but you were here, and he also didn’t want to run away from you like he had done all those years ago. Reluctantly, he stepped in through the doorway and observed the décor as the door was shut harshly behind him, causing him to flinch and send Ron a disapproving leer. Weasley dismissed it with a scoff and gestured for him to follow, to which Draco had half a mind to tease if he had been employed as your butler. He kept his mouth shut only because Ron looked like he would sock him in the face if he made a wrong move, and he wished to keep his teeth. He was led down a long corridor framed with both moving and still photographs, some containing yourself and your friends, and others of the scenery. There was one painting on the wall that caught his eye that showed a woman descending into the depths of the ocean, her silk white dress curling and twisting around her body. He could not stare at it for long seeing as they were on the move, but it had already made a place in his mind for further scrutiny later. They turned a corner, stopping in front of another door, and Draco had to brace his hands in front of him to prevent Ron from coming any closer when he suddenly whirled around to point an accusing finger at him.   
  
“Now you listen here. Y/n’s been wanting to invite you over for quite some time now, and he’s made me promise not to hurt you,” he paused to take a sharp breath, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t threaten you to behave lest I beat you within an inch of your life.” He took a few steps back, never breaking eye contact, and turned the knob halfway to the right. “Don’t think I’m not still right furious at you for taking the piss on your. . . _relationship_ with him.”   
  
Draco scoffed and slapped Ron’s finger away before stuffing his hands in his pockets, and sending him a challenging look. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you just spy on us?”   
  
Ron appeared defeated for a second until scowling. “I thought of that. Y/n has the eyes of a hawk. . .” And with that said, he opened the door and walked back down the hall, bumping his shoulder with Draco’s in the process. Were he to have no self-control, he would have snapped at him for doing so, but instead, focused on the matter at hand. Draco’s fingers curled hesitantly around the base of the knob and turned, finding that all previous nervousness had faded to make way for the adrenaline that penetrated his system in a height of thrill.   
  
The door swung open to reveal a rather frazzled looking version of yourself, standing in the middle of the room in all your glory. In such little time, the blonde had taken note of each and every insignificant detail about your stature, pointing out the ones that were familiar. He noted the way you wrung your hands now, and remembered how you had done the exact same thing when approaching him during sixth year, a confession long procrastinated on begging to flee from your lips. This was followed by the biting of your bottom lip, a habit that often distracted Draco from his work when in class, and occupied his attention for just a while longer until he moved onto your eyes.   
They used to dart around, searching for something to grasp onto with what little hope remained in them. As he looked at you now, he saw only warmth in them, and another emotion he had not anticipated, nor seen in anyone’s referral to him in a long while.   
  
“Draco.” You said in a whisper, the corners of your lips twitching upwards in a fond smile. The softness in your voice was enough to make his knees buckle, and for his breath to catch in his throat, but he made sure to keep steady. “You came.”   
  
He would have been offended at how surprised you sounded, but it occurred to him then that you would not have known how tended his feelings were for you. You probably had no idea he still loved you, and while it wasn’t a pleasant thought, it was the truth, and Draco had come to accept it along with many other hard facts. “You asked.” He replied smoothly, and was rewarded with a full grin that made his stomach lurch.   
  
With a curt nod, you gestured to the table that squatted beside him, a fine linen cloth draped over the top. Curiously, he eyed it, then you, and after hearing your amused snort of a laugh, took this as a sign to sit down. He was about to pull one of the chairs out when it swiveled to the right and adjusted itself, as if ordered to. Though the action was startling, he recovered quickly and seated himself, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap to stare at you intently as you shuffled over to a small counter packed with muggle appliances. You caught his gaze over your shoulder and hummed thoughtfully, waving your hand to procure two china cups from thin air, as well as a steaming tea pot.   
  
“Tea?” The question barely registered with his mind, which was too preoccupied with your wandless and wordless magic. To this, apparently, his reaction was comical, otherwise your amused giggling wouldn’t have reached his ears. Blinking, he swallowed and nodded, feeling it best to accept. Maybe it will get rid of the stress, he thought as a saucer of sweet smelling liquid came to hover in front of him. Graciously, he took it and gave a tentative sip, reveling the tingling sensation it brought to his taste buds. Moments later, you had sat down with your own cup of tea, leaning back in your seat with a pensive expression gracing your features. Draco felt uncomfortable with your gaze trained on him, so he turned his head to stare at the wall, fidgeting.   
  
“Since you’re here, I assume you got the note?” You inquired. Draco nodded, but did not look at you. He took another sip of the beverage and chuckled — there was no emotion to it. It sounded empty.   
  
“Took a minute for me to figure it out, but yes, I did.” He began, his jaw clenching at the reminder, and the words that were written there. Again, he shifted, this time so he could glance at you from the corner of his eye to see you staring at him expectantly. “Although I don’t know why you’d go through all the trouble of making it secret, or sending the flower. . .you could have just owled me.” It came out bitter, which was not his intent, and the look of hurt that flashed across your face only worsened his guilt.   
  
“I thought it would have been obvious. I didn’t want anyone but you to read the note, and, well, the rose was meant as a sign of peace,” you paused, setting your cup down to fold your arms over the tabletop. “and gratitude.”   
  
  
Draco managed a snort, his brows furrowing in disbelief as he finally turned towards you. “Gratitude? What have I done to you for you to be thankful for?”   
  
“Well, Malfoy, I could have sworn that year and a half of snogging and exchange of deep secrets meant something, but if having you by my side for that small amount of time isn’t something to be thankful for than I don’t know what the bloody hell is.”   
  
_Malfoy_. He didn’t quite like the sound of it rolling from your tongue, especially in such a grim tone of voice. ”Honestly, do you really think I’d send you a sappy poem and a plea for you to come see me and not have the decency to talk about what happened?”

  
  
Draco screwed up his nose in disgust, squinting at you. “After all these years? No. And is it really decency?” 

  
“ _Yes_ , because I’m trying to make things better. I want to apologize-” He would have choked on his tea had he not set it down to nurse his trembling hands, which were stuffed under the table to avoid questioning.   
  
“ You? Apologize for what?” he said, appalled. “For being the only person to open themselves up to me when no one else would? For saving me from a lifetime of debt in Azkaban? For. . . _for loving me_?” There was a spark of something in your eyes that indicated he had hit a nerve, and he slowly sunk back into his seat, without realizing that he had stood up during his rambling. You couldn’t really be sorry for that, could you? With a deep sigh, you rubbed a hand over your face and peered at Draco from behind your fingers. He saw the same hopelessness that was in your eyes when he left you, only far more desperate.   
  
“You weren’t ready. You needed someone to be there for you, not necessarily someone to share a romantic entanglement with, nor a brief one at that.” “I think deep down you knew that, too. The stress was too much, and you didn’t need the extra weight of having to protect someone other than your blood. You were trying too hard.”   
  
  
  
“But I loved you,” he breathed, pressing his clenched fists between his thighs to keep them from shaking. “I thought you knew that. I didn’t want to leave. I did it because no one could find out, and if they did — my father, Voldemort, anyone — you’d be getting flack as well.” He hated this, all of it. He hated the vulnerability that he experienced through just talking to you, and now, he was beginning to feel the consequences of having come here in the first place. When coming to see you, he had not expected forgiveness, let alone an apology, so one could tell how bewildered he was at the unexpected change in conversation; especially when considering how mellow it had started out. A silence hung over the room, not quite as unbearable as the one that inhabited his flat, but no less uncomfortable. Your expression, usually easy to identify, was masked by a fervor that, to his great fear, he could not read. Your body language, however, betrayed your attempts to hide whatever it was that was bothering you, and Draco’s thanks immediately went out to his own lack of attention span for anything that did not involve you. Those countless hours of studying you turned out to be more beneficial than he first thought. Though, he had to admit that it was unnerving, seeing you cover up what once used to be put up on display for everyone to see. The instant you mouth opened, he was already way ahead of you with his response.   
  
“Did I pressure you-”   
  
  
“-No.” He said firmly, watching the crease between your brows deepen in concentration. He tilted his chin up slightly and glowered at you, almost as if challenging you to argue.  
  
  
“-Because I had done so much, and you felt-”   
  
  
“I didn’t feel the need to pay you back.” Draco seethed, pressing the palm of his hand to the table and causing it to shake. Guilt wracked him raw at the sight of your muscles tensing, but he continued. “You know me better than anyone, yes? Knew me, inside and out. So it’s obvious then that if I hadn’t been attracted to you, I would’ve returned the favor in a more practical way.”   
To this, he could practically see the gears in your head turning, and by your displeased reaction, against your will, no doubt. He lowered his voice to a calm timbre as you bit the inside of your cheek in thought.   
  
  
“I wouldn’t have risked everything unless I wanted something only you could give me.”   
  
  
This time, when meeting his gaze, you did not break it. The presage of tears to pass made your eyes glisten, but were promptly blinked away. “And what might that be?”   
  
  
Draco, without knowing where it had originated from or why he allowed it to take control of his movements, was overcome by a great confidence. At the same time, he felt an unwelcomed sense of anxiety pooling in the pit of his stomach, signaling that he could no longer handle the sobriety of the situation. Standing from his chair, he placed himself at your side and reached down to slip his fingers under yours, grasping them gently. He pressed a chaste kiss to your knuckles, relishing in the faint gasp it procured, and leaned back on the heals of his feet. Then, he was walking out the door, his words accompanied by the lingering aroma of tea; now cold and abandoned.   
  
  
  
“Hope.”


End file.
